


I Don't Want the World to See Me

by coulson_is_an_avenger



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Crowley's Sunglasses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Nonbinary Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, References to Polari, Second Kiss, Wings, and other side affects of Good Ol Trauma TM, basically I am Gay and have a lot of feelings about Crowley's eyes, it's about... the glasses... and the consent...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coulson_is_an_avenger/pseuds/coulson_is_an_avenger
Summary: In which Crowley realizes that the minions of Hell may have sworn to leave him alone in the future, but the scars they left on his past are still very, very real.





	I Don't Want the World to See Me

**Author's Note:**

> Alright this is only my second published fic literally ever, so I apologize in advance for any errors in formatting or tagging or any of that good stuff. I am open to suggestions if I messed anything up :0
> 
> That being said! Oh boy I'm so happy to finally post this, I've been working on this for over two weeks (holy shit) and it's the first good omens fic I've actually managed to finish, so I'm super proud of it!! This piece was very inspired by my own dealings with trauma and its aftereffects, the song Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls, and also [ this absolutely gorgeous art ](https://konnyart.tumblr.com/post/187310130021/you-have-beautiful-eyes).
> 
> Beta credit to [ anotherdirtycomputer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdirtycomputer/pseuds/anotherdirtycomputer) \- I cannot stress enough how grateful I am, thank you SO MUCH!! <3 <3
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this piece as much as I enjoyed working on it!! :D

The first time it happened was on a quiet, peaceful night a few weeks after the Armageddon that wasn’t.

The first time Aziraphale finally found the courage to take that final step into Crowley, he did so with shuddering breath, with shaking hands, with nervous glances and hesitant lips.

_“Do you want this as much as I do?”_ he had asked quietly, seeking assurance, and Crowley, quite beyond himself with affection, had replied with a voice almost breaking that he did. <strike>He always had. He had wanted this for as long as he could remember.</strike> Aziraphale had seemed braver then, had taken his hands and pulled him in carefully, and yet with all the reckless love in his being. The first gentle brush of dry lips had both of them gasping, both of them pulling back the slightest inch with six thousand years worth of practiced fear and restraint, both of them searching for and seeing the promise of “it’s okay” in each other’s eyes, both of them gravitating back in.

The first time Crowley got what he wanted, what he had always wanted, what he had wanted to give and receive and _show_ longer than he had known his true name, the gentle affection of it quite nearly made him see stars. It was so simple, he thought, as his hands slid around Aziraphale’s shoulders, as he tilted his head to get a better angle, and Aziraphale offered a hand to his cheek as if guiding him closer, as he tasted honey and sweet wine and clear mornings and sunlight and featherlight softness in his mouth, as a sound came from deep in Crowley’s throat that was anything but composed, and yet Aziraphale still chased after it.

It was so simple, so _human_, and yet so incredibly divine that Crowley was amazed that he didn't discorporate on the spot. He half felt like he had, for all the breath was gone from his lungs - although who _really_ needs air when one’s focus could be entirely dedicated to something far more life-sustaining than oxygen? - and he was sure that his legs were going to give out from beneath him any moment, and he could feel his heart thrumming against his ribs so loudly that he was sure it was actually jumping out of his own chest and into Aziraphale’s. It should have been something terrifying, the depth of his own desire, but all Crowley could think of was how _desperately_ he had wanted this for _so long_, and how it was happening now _for the first time_, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing in all his years that could have possibly prepared him for it. He could have died happy in that moment, he decided. He could have sunk into the cold earth and never wanted again.

Crowley thought he’d rediscovered the true meaning of Heaven on Aziraphale’s lips, because this, oh, this was the sort of thing that the humans sang of in their churches. This was the sort of thing the humans believed in with their whole chests and their whole lives; this was the sort of perfect, ineffable Goodness that was only spoken of in temples and in the hopeful whispers of the forgotten. This was the sort of thing that a demon could never deserve, and yet here his angel was, offering him it, offering him unconditional affection with two gentle hands and two parted lips and all the warmth held in his perfect, soft body.

But then - because there had to be a “but then”, didn’t there? Good and beautiful things didn’t last, not for Crowley - everything went sideways.

The first time Aziraphale kissed him was also the first time his soft fingers had begun to trail higher, above his cheekbones, up near the sides of his eyes, and Crowley remembered tensing. Those fingers had bumped against, then hooked around the arms of his glasses, and tugged them slightly forward; asking, asking. Crowley remembered going stone-still. _Oh, don’t. No._

And then he remembered pulling himself sharply back as if he had been burned, retracting his arms from around the angel, and bringing up a hand like a barrier between the two of them to push the glasses sharply back into place with an incoherent noise of defensiveness as he bit back the words _too fast_ so sharply he nearly nipped through his own tongue. He didn’t remember more than flashes of Aziraphale’s apology, his genuinely worried expression, how his hands had drawn back cautiously towards his own belly, coming together in that way he always held them like a man in prayer, asking forgiveness. Crowley barely remembered any of it, because after he had pulled back, he had immediately excused himself from the bookshop before anything else could be said or done.

He had excused himself and stumbled all the way to the Bentley and had driven back to his flat, not thinking, just trying to run - _run run outrun it faster faster go faster than the fear, faster than the past_ \- as far away as he could, hoping his heart would eventually stop pounding before he had to rip it out and silence it himself. The car had found itself outside the flat all too soon, and so then Crowley had simply leaned over the steering wheel and frozen for an entire half hour as everything sunk in, letting out a scream of frustration once he finally trusted himself to take in breath again.

He had just run from Aziraphale, hadn’t he? He had just run from _his angel_, from the one he loved and who loved him and who he trusted more than anyone else in the world. He had just run from the moment that he had been dreaming about for centuries. It had all been perfect. It had all been right. _So why was this happening?_ Why was he still scared? Why was his heart still screaming and thundering and reminding him of not just the panic, but the _intimacy_ he had left behind, the intimacy he had been craving for _millennia_? Why were his hands still trembling so fiercely he could hardly grip the steering wheel? Why was he still reaching up to check that his glasses really were in their proper place every five seconds? He forced himself to move, ripping the keys from the ignition in frustration as he exited the vehicle and trudged up to his apartment, fighting the itch to look over his shoulder at every step.

He was being delirious; ridiculous, even. Absolutely erratic. He could think of a hundred more words to describe what an utter _dolt_ he was being at the moment, and he berated himself with all of them, each insult sharp as knives, except… He stomped up the steps like his feet had suddenly grown heavy, fighting back another scream. The more he thought about it - and he really was not enjoying thinking about it, but there was absolutely no stopping something this fresh - he began to realize that only one person other than himself had ever removed his glasses before, and that memory had been _awful_, as most memories associated with Hastur were.

He was overcome with a sudden burst of anxiety at the realization, and shot an admittedly desperate look behind himself as he took the next stair. The hallway was empty, but yet the black eyes of the past still felt close enough to breathe down his neck. His hair stood on end. The disgusting toad had ripped the lenses from his eyes in the safety of his _own car_ and had then gone so far as to _shatter_ them in front of him. It had been a gesture of control, stripping them away; an invasive cruelty meant solely to get under his skin and make him feel powerless, make him feel vulnerable and exposed.

He should have bitten off Hastur’s hand before he got the chance, he thought, but he knew he had been too shocked, too scared, too suddenly raw to have acted so quickly. The glasses were a symbol of Crowley’s connection to earth, yes, but they were also a self-defense, a personal shield. They kept others from seeing the echo of the ache of his Fall still in his eyes, kept Hell from seeing the truth of his snakelike deception and lies, kept humans from being unnerved and mistrusting because of his appearance, and finally, kept Aziraphale from seeing how deeply he hurt sometimes, how achingly he loved, how many burning questions he silently asked, how unchecked and explosive his emotions were at times. He had always been self conscious about exactly how much his eyes betrayed, so much so that he had quite successfully ingrained it in himself that others would be just as disgusted by it as he was.

But going back to his original point; control was not, he knew, what Aziraphale was trying to exercise over him. And yet…

Crowley wanted to scream again. Weren't important realizations like this supposed to happen in convenient times? Moments of solitude or being aided with therapeutic insight? Weren't realizations about things like this supposed to happen _anywhere_ but in a dingy staircase like this, and _any time_ but now?

He finally reached his flat and furiously pulled the door open. He slammed it behind him as he entered, and kicked at his chair in frustration before circling it like a predatory serpent encircling prey. His issues with Hastur should have been over by now, shouldn't they? After all, he hadn’t even _seen_ the disgusting bugger since he had discorporated from the heat in Crowley’s Bentley like a stain being cleansed in the wash.

Aziraphale had told him that Hastur had been scared out of his wits at the trial and Crowley knew for a fact that Hastur, if anything, was a spineless coward. There was no chance of him coming after them now, so his actions and influence absolutely should not still bleed into Crowley’s life like this, especially not into his time with Aziraphale, where everything was safe and warm and _deeply_ unlike Hell.

And yet, that overwhelming safety and love apparently hadn’t mattered. The enormity of Aziraphale’s tenderness couldn’t protect Crowley from his own mind, could it? - especially when his angel didn’t even _know_ \- and all of that shock, all of that fear, all of that vulnerability had come flooding back to him, feeling too much like ripping a bandage off to expose tender flesh. Crowley gritted his teeth and tugged off a shoe to hurl across the room, before flinching at the noise and instinctively looking around to ensure that no one was lurking near him.

Again, he scolded himself, hissing at his own behavior. The reaction was ridiculous, _he_ was being ridiculous, and yet he unfurled his massive wings to protect his back from any invisible harm anyways as he continued to think.

Aziraphale had seen his eyes before. Hell, the angel had seen his eyes more than any other being on the planet had. He’d been alongside Crowley since the Beginning, far before humans had even thought to invent eyewear, and he’d seen his eyes dozens of times in the modern era too, when Crowley got comfortable enough after a few glasses of wine; defenses and inhibitions stripped away as he lay coiled and smiling on his couch. But all those times had been different somehow. Perhaps it was that all those times hadn’t been… intimate? There had been some kind of distance, and there hadn’t been open affection. No, no that wasn’t the problem. He had looked at Aziraphale with unabashed love in his bare eyes before, he was certain of that. This was different.

_It had always been his own choice,_ he realized, taking a step back as if he had been hit by a train. It had always been his own hands peeling the tinted layers away from his eyes. His own movements. His own decision.

He held on to the back of the throne-like chair in front of him as if it would ground him, and flexed his wings out behind him, listening as they swished through the air and taking notice of their shifting weight just to remind himself that their protective presence was there. Demon wings were technically of the same stock as angel wings, so they were quite effective in guarding others, but they served to protect him well enough. To sneak up on him from behind and cause harm would require fighting through the masses of powerful midnight blue feathers, and it would be utterly impossible to do so undetected. Crowley extended the wings behind him, stretching them out as fully as they could, and then brought them back in again, letting the tips of his feathers brush against the floor, feeling a bit better.

And _then_ he started nagging at himself, unleashing scathing questions.

_Is that all? Is this just because you didn’t realize that was what he wanted, just because this wasn't your decision, or is there something more? Why does it bother you so much; the idea of being seen?_

The answer, of course, was one that Crowley didn’t like. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, even against his better judgement, and he had always offered his gaze, even when Aziraphale was too frightened to return it, but one could get used to shields, and one could convince themselves that the thing they were guarding was actually really too terrible to be seen. Now the concept of this vulnerability, this nakedness in freeing his expression… the very idea of it was petrifying. Just the thought of it stole his breath again, even as he stood in the flat, reminding him of how he had fled, driven by a primal fear and the pounding ache of not ready, not ready, _not ready_.

He left the chair to flop down on his bed and groan, wings sprawling out dramatically behind him like a blanket as he wondered miserably if this was how Aziraphale had felt for 6000 years; loving and wanting and struggling to keep his affections deeply buried in order to keep himself safe. He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale had managed to survive it.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t ready to face the angel again for an entire week. He had tried sleeping away the paranoia, but his dreams were all full of reaching hands <strike>and the inevitable look of disgust in the angel’s eyes when he finally wrestled the lenses off of him</strike> and after three nights of _that_ he had given up, and resorted to barking at his plants.

Talking aloud was something of a comfort; it served to ground him, remind him of where he was and what had happened, and also to give himself some sort of control over his spiraling thoughts. It was in one of his shouting matches with a particularly flourishing fern that he abruptly realized that he had left Aziraphale without any sort of explanation and without any sort of idea as to what the angel had been thinking. And _that_ had prompted him into an entirely different swing of emotions.

_Somebody_ help him, the angel must have been confused. How could Crowley have _done_ that to him - no, no, it wasn’t his fault, he had barely realized what was happening to himself in the first place, he couldn’t expect himself to go back in time and calmly rewrite the moment to involve him cheerily adding “Oh, by the way, Aziraphale, darling, before I storm out of your shop like a man possessed, please be aware that I’ve simply experienced a kind of trigger that is causing me to relive some previously unrealized trauma, which, apparently, has me so tightly around the throat that it has ruined our first night of kissing. Terribly sorry. Wish me luck!” Besides, and perhaps more importantly, how was Aziraphale handling this time of complete radio silence? The fern did not answer, so he furiously spritzed it with his plant mister.

Everything would eventually be okay, he assured himself, the optimist in him wriggling to the surface. He’d eventually get a hold on this new - and decidedly _stupid_ \- panic that rose in his chest at the very thought of the other night, and then he’d be able to go back and apologize, and everything would be okay again.

He slunk past a mirror and realized that he hadn’t taken off his glasses in the entire six days he had been home.

On the seventh day - and wasn’t that poetic, like some kind of literary Biblical metaphor, Aziraphale loved seeing all the fun humans had with those - he realized the fear wasn’t going to go away as long as he holed himself up and convinced himself of whatever horrible things the angel was thinking of him. If he admitted it to himself, one of his favorite things about the angel was that he _couldn’t_ predict what the bastard was up to, and so all of this was really entirely ridiculous. But, the matter remained that no matter what he talked himself into believing, it wasn’t going to go away until he saw the angel again himself. And so, at around 4:27 in the morning on Thursday, he forced his fingers to dial the number of the bookshop, and asked Aziraphale to meet him for dinner the next day.

The _real_ Aziraphale, not the fake one he’d been grappling with in his brain for the last week, had sounded delighted to hear his voice on the other end of the phone, and Crowley had been half sure that if he pressed the receiver to his ear hard enough, he’d be able to feel Aziraphale’s smile from the other side. The angel, bless him, had enthusiastically agreed, and they were to meet up at the old sushi restaurant in town.

Crowley had then spent the next twelve hours flying - literally flying - away from the fear that swallowed him the moment Aziraphale hung up. What if seeing him again made everything worse? What if the angel would be angry with him for vanishing? What if what if what if? Crowley was an inquisitive being by nature - he prided himself in that - but dear bastard angels above, he was exhausted from the questions.

He spread his wings and soared above London, above everything. Unseen, unnoticed, unreal to everyone but a few other birds, who just looked at him like he was a particularly annoying vulture. It didn’t matter, he had breezed past them with a single swoop. By the time he landed back at the flat, folding his wings into nothingness behind him, he felt something akin to readiness.

* * *

For all his fretting, when Crowley finally arrived to pick Aziraphale up, glasses firmly in place and Bentley screaming “The Show Must Go On”, the mere presence of the angel calmed him down immensely. It was impossible not to feel safe around those eager eyes and genuine smiles. Aziraphale was overjoyed to see him, he could tell that easily, and his fears of lingering resentment melted almost immediately, and Aziraphale had only asked once how the demon had been (to which he had very firmly said “irrelevant”, and the angel had thankfully left it alone) before launching into telling Crowley about a lovely book he had discovered over the week, one on the lost queer language of Polari.

Dinner went exceptionally well - Aziraphale had even convinced Crowley to try a bite of his food - from his own chopsticks, of course - and soon enough they were back in the Bentley, stopped outside of Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel had then turned and looked at him, and Crowley had felt something akin to ice creeping up his chest. This was it, the moment everything could still go wrong.

“Would you like to come in, my dear?” His voice was suddenly careful, as if testing out the waters for the first time. He had asked this question a hundred times before (two hundred and fourteen times, exactly, since it had opened in 1800), but this time felt like the first all over again. He was hesitant, and Crowley would have laughed - as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world but with him - if he didn’t know exactly why the angel was hesitant. He hated the uncertainty in Aziraphale’s eyes, hated that he might possibly think Crowley would turn him down again, hated himself for running so thoughtlessly before.

“Absolutely,” he responded, his tone assuring him that there was no doubt in his mind, and Aziraphale basically _glowed_.

“I still have some of that delightful drink from last time, if you'd like,” the angel offered, stepping out of the car and leading them both to the shop. “Or, if you'd rather something new, I could look for another…”

It all felt familiar from there. Both of them chatting over bottles of wine, reclining in various parts of the shop, going over what new books Aziraphale had gotten, and how Crowley’s plants were faring, stirring up a squabble over whether the pretentious fern deserved to be replanted or not. It was comfortable, it was warm, and it was just as safe as it had been a thousand times before. Crowley found himself smiling softly as Aziraphale scolded him about how harshly he threatened those poor houseplants, and thinking about how he had fought for this. Both of them had fought for this, for this simple right to enjoy each other's company without any pretense of business, and now that he had it, Crowley would be content to stay here with this fussy angel forever, at ease and at home. He stood suddenly from the chair he had been draped over, and moved to drape himself over Aziraphale instead.

The angel gave little noise of surprise and a quick glance around them - 6000 years of habits were hard to break - before fixing the demon with an affectionate look.

“You know I just replant them.” Crowley murmured, in response to the angel’s scolding. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and the demon ignored the movement by putting his legs in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Comfortable?” They were close now, with Crowley’s arm casually around his neck, and Aziraphale’s hand unconsciously coming to rest on his side. Crowley used his free hand to check one last time if the glasses were still in place, before nuzzling closer into his side and humming in response, distracted by the sudden proximity, letting the warm moment of togetherness drag out.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale asked, gently breaking the moment. “Stop me if you want, but I want to ask what upset you last time.”

Something in Crowley’s stomach dropped. He hesitantly shifted in the angel’s lap so he could see him and opened his mouth to lie, but the words twisted in his mind, and he found that he simply couldn't. Not with Aziraphale so close, not with those eyes so affectionate and sincere. He deserved to know. And maybe Crowley deserved to be understood.

“…Didn't know.” He managed to choke out, the words burning his throat, his voice cacophonous and unsteady as he fought to keep it together. Honesty; pure, unfiltered, raw and out-in-the-open honesty, was not his strong suit, and he tried to ignore the way his hands began trembling, and his eyes darted away from Aziraphale’s face to flit about the room. “You— glasses. Last person who tried to take them off of me without asking was Hastur. Somehow it got all connected in my head, and—” he flailed for words, and simply settled with waving a hand to symbolize his vanishing off into the night.

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinked, looking down and thinking, somehow sounding as if he had made sense of Crowley’s blabbering. The demon shouldn’t have been surprised, Aziraphale had always understood him a great deal more than he was prepared for. “Oh, my dear, I’m terribly sorry. You’ve taken them off around me before, so I had just assumed… Oh, I should have asked.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” Crowley assured him, moving himself carefully out of the angel’s lap so he could look at him better. “I had no idea either. I should be the one apologizing.” The burn of regret clawed back up in his throat and tasted like bile. “The whole panicking and running and avoiding thing was entirely stupid and ridiculous, and—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cut him off. “Listen to me. None of that is ridiculous. You were upset, it wasn’t _your_ fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.”

“I’m sorry I ran away.” Crowley breathed, voice lowered and careful.

“My dear, if space was what you needed, then I’m not. On the contrary, I’m glad you did. Of course, I would much rather be of assistance to you if I can, but I know that allowing yourself to gather your thoughts in solace can do wonders. You needn’t feel sorry, Crowley. I’m not angry with you. I never was.” Aziraphale looked at him seriously, eyes practically overflowing with affection, and if someone didn’t make a joke soon, Crowley was going to cry.

“I’m glad,” he admitted softly.

“And,” Aziraphale added, because apparently he wasn’t done yet, and wasn’t that great for the lump already forming in Crowley’s throat. “You don’t need to worry about those glasses. I’ve seen your eyes before, as you know, but, whatever you’re comfortable with, whatever makes you feel safest, that’s what goes. I won’t try to take them again without your permission, I swear.”

“Hrg.” Crowley responded, appreciative. His body relaxed some at the assurance, more lingering tension fading. “Thanks. Although, for the record, I can’t figure out why you’d want to see a demon’s eyes to begin with.” He had meant for it to come out like a joke to cut the tension, but somewhere between his brain and his mouth, the instructions had gotten muddled, and the admission sounded like what it really was: a confession, and a question. His eyes widened, and he fought the urge to physically reel back from his words, and settled for pinching his brows together. “I mean—”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The angel sounded a little put out as he interrupted. “Because they’re a part of you, and I'd much like to love every part of you that you’ll allow.” He stated it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Crowley gawked.

“What?” That couldn’t be right, his eyes were a menace. Regardless of how vulnerable they made him feel, his eyes were the symbol of his Fallen nature, the one thing about his appearance that he could never change, no matter what form he took. His eyes were snakelike, twisted from the natural, horrifying to any and every human that looked upon them, and to an angel they had to be even more awful. They were a declaration of what he was: unforgivable, unlovable, demonic. Even Aziraphale had to know that. He’d never flinched from them in the past, but Crowley had talked himself into believing that was because Aziraphale was too polite to openly reveal how uncomfortable they actually made him feel. He glanced back up hesitantly and found the angel looking at him with patience.

“Crowley, we’ve talked about this. After everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve survived, you know how I feel about you. Those feelings extend to everything about you, you know. Even that horrible bebop you enjoy. Even those gorgeous eyes.”

Crowley felt a bit like he was melting. He briefly considered turning into a snake. “Oh.”

“I’m serious.” Aziraphale said, softer this time, shifting closer. He paused, looking over the demon and biting his lip for the briefest of moments before continuing. “Could I try again?”

Crowley went still. He knew what the question meant, and his first reaction was to say no, not wanting to tempt the corner of his mind that desperately screamed for him to stay hidden, and he opened his mouth to deny him, but paused. If he was honest, a part of him did want this. He had buried and hidden that secret part of himself long ago with desperate hands and grave dirt, but it was now slithering back up to the surface with all the cautious hope of a flower opening its petals to the morning light, reminding him of the truth he tried to conceal from himself.

He _did_ want to be seen, and the way Aziraphale was looking at him now almost made him believe he could be loved for it.

He wanted to give him that chance, he wanted to try, even though he didn’t know if he was ready. This could be different, he pointed out to himself. Aziraphale was asking this time, Aziraphale was being careful. He knew, and he understood, and he was trying to offer Crowley something, not trying to take anything.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Aziraphale added when he saw Crowley falter in his response. “And you can change your mind if—”

“Yes.” Crowley interrupted, barely a whisper. “_Please_.”

Aziraphale swallowed, and nodded. He raised his hands to the sides of Crowley’s face first, cupping his cheeks with warm palms, tender and affectionate. “Alright. Now, I’m taking these off because I want to look at you, my love. Not to hurt you, never to hurt you.” He waited for Crowley to nod encouragingly, before he took a breath and reached up, carefully taking hold of the arms of the glasses.

Crowley felt his heart kick into action, but he kept his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s, focusing on that love with everything in him. _I can trust him. I can trust him. I can trust him. He loves me. I trust him._

“I love you,” The angel assured, looking closely for any sort of quiet request for him to stop, and, finding none, slid the glasses off a little, slow and deliberate. “I want to see you as you are, I want to love you fully for every piece of you.” His voice sounded almost holy like this, like he was promising himself to Crowley just as much as he was assuring him. The breathless whispers sounded something like prayers, and something like a choked off groan escaped Crowley in response.

“Ngk.” He offered helplessly.

“You can tell me to stop whenever,” Aziraphale reminded him, and Crowley believed him. The glasses were almost off of his nose, and the angel reassured him one last time, “I want to adore you fully. I want to see you fully so I can adore you all the more for every beautiful part of you there is, if you’ll allow me.”

Crowley’s eyes slid shut as the glasses came all the way off, and he held tightly onto Aziraphale’s shoulders as he let out a breath. There was a moment, and he didn’t hear the lenses shatter, and his eyes slid open again with surprise as he felt Aziraphale tenderly push the glasses into his jacket pocket with all the affection he gave his books. Crowley looked down, slightly breathless. Aziraphale hadn’t set them down somewhere safe, or vanished them, or hooked them onto his own clothing or anything he might have expected him to do. No. He had put them back in Crowley’s control, put the choice back in his hands. He looked back up, speechless, and Aziraphale smiled as he saw understanding in his now bare eyes.

“I want you to feel like you can change your mind,” he confirmed, thinking aloud, and then he leaned forward just the slightest amount to see Crowley better, and the serpent’s eyes were close and full of gratitude and understanding and absolute affection and Aziraphale let out a breath so deep at the sight that he must have been holding it in for at least a thousand years. “Oh.”

His palms cupped the sides of Crowley’s face, and he brought him in even closer, studying him with such fierce care that it was as if he’d never seen something worth loving before that moment. Something stung the back of the demon’s eyes, and he blinked it away furiously, refusing to choose now as a moment to cry. “Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured as he continued studying him, running a thumb over his cheek. “Beautiful beautiful beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” Crowley agreed breathlessly, talking about something different entirely. He let himself look back, let himself see his angel up close, no shadows and film of darkness, no lenses, no barriers. lHe’d never before realized how many different colors hid in Aziraphale’s eyes, had never quite noticed the small rings of gold around his pupils, like tiny halos encircling his sight, had never quite been able to see the flush of his skin with such clarity, and Crowley’s hands found themselves reaching out, one brushing over his cheek, his thumb gliding across that perfect blush, and the other tenderly catching his soft side, wishing him impossibly closer. Come closer, come closer.

Aziraphale swayed in place, eyes wide and reverent, and one of his hands moved so he could reach out and gently brush his fingers over the seam of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley felt himself relaxing into the touch, the usually harsh line of his mouth turning soft under the pad of his thumb as Aziraphale traced from one corner of his lips to the other and again, and again, and again; slowly, adoringly, as if attempting to map and memorize every millimeter of his skin, until Crowley found himself overcome with _need_, and a sound made its way from his lungs like he had attempted to speak to get the angel’s attention, but the words got stuck in his throat on the way out.

Aziraphale looked back up at his eyes at the prompting, and Crowley felt his breath catch again at the sight of raw desire and affection mingling with the blue-green of the angel’s iris. Aziraphale’s hand slipped from the demon’s face, falling to graze oh so slightly against his throat, and the movement of his knuckles against his skin as Crowley swallowed in anticipation felt like hot fire. It took a tremendous amount of effort to keep himself from pressing flush against the angel right then, but a final hesitation held him back; a final question, a final need for reassurance. _Are you sure? Out of everyone, are you sure it’s me you want? After all that? After all the running and panicking and the failed explanations and the ridiculousness? Are you sure you choose a serpent and a demon and a mess to love? Are you sure it’s me?_

Against his will, some of the words slipped out in a voice so quiet, so fragile, he could barely hear himself say it; “Are you sure?”

“Oh my love,” Was all Aziraphale could offer as he dipped his head low and crossed the last three inches to kiss him.

The distance was much less three inches and much more the entire journey from Heaven to Hell and back up to Earth, much more a journey of trust, of recovery; choosing to meet Crowley where he was for who he was, choosing him and his pain and his fears and his sorrows and his joy and his interests and his love and everything everything everything. It was a journey of faith; a prayer, a vow.

Aziraphale’s mouth was even softer against his own than it had been last time, and Crowley found himself all but shaking as Aziraphale made a small, delighted little sound, and proceeded to slowly work his lips against Crowley’s as if with the intent of carefully memorizing every fraction of his skin, every single line on his lips and every single bud on his tongue. He kissed him slowly, deliberately, in that special way that felt so real and intimate, like he was seeking to know Crowley’s mouth better than his own, and Crowley felt quite close to utterly breaking apart from the intensity of it all.

His shoulders shook with a held-in sigh, and his chest burned something wonderfully awful as Aziraphale’s hands and lips left his skin scorching. He allowed Aziraphale to take him apart, and all he could do in return was cling to the angel’s coat like it was a lifeline, and try not to let his knees buckle with the weight of all the Divinity pressed against his mouth and wrapped around his waist, with the weight of the only one he’d ever truly trusted, ever truly wanted, ever truly waited for, ever truly loved.

Crowley couldn't hold back a groan as Aziraphale’s hand found itself a more firm place against the side of his throat, and his tongue found its way under Crowley’s and the sigh escaped him before he even realized it had, and something snapped, and he relaxed into the kiss, sinking into the angel’s hold, pressing back as much as he could, even though he’d never felt more weak in his life. One of his hands found its way into Aziraphale’s hair and he could feel the angel smile; a beautiful, joyous, holy thing, pressed right up against Crowley’s own desperate mouth, and he all but surged forward, reaching all the way back from Hell into Heaven to chase the sunshine of it, to chase the warmth and affection and happiness in the grin.

Aziraphale _laughed_ against his lips with the joy of it, and then Crowley found himself chuckling too, and then they were both forced to break apart, giggling like lovestruck teenagers overcome with feelings of attraction for the first time.

It didn't last long, Crowley managed to shove down his own laughter long enough to reach back to pepper small, adoring smooches across Aziraphale’s cheeks and chin as he grinned, writing a poem of devotion and affection across his face as the angel continued to laugh. Aziraphale caught him long enough to pull him down and press a kiss to his forehead - nearly against his hairline - and then back down to his mouth, pressing that perfect, warm love against Crowley until he could feel how much love was contained in the simple gesture, until he could taste the joy and the warmth and the simple affection of it all. It was enough that Crowley somehow felt entirely undone and remade in the same moment, and he could hardly stop smiling long enough to continue kissing Aziraphale.

Eventually he gave up trying to hold back, and pulled the angel into an embrace instead; as close and as tight as he could manage, feeling his own heart thump against Aziraphale’s.

_I am yours, I am yours, I am yours._ He wanted to say.

He wasn't quite sure if the words ever left his throat, but it didn’t matter. He was safe, and he had all of eternity to show their meaning, even if he never quite managed to speak them.

**Author's Note:**

> _and I don't want the world to see me_   
_‘cause I don't think that they’d understand_   
_when everything’s made to be broken_   
_I just want you to know who I am_
> 
> -
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!! Stay safe and have a wonderful time out there, lovelies! <3


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